


Close Encounters of the Angelic Kind

by one_more_cup_of_tea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Good Omens Is a Chaotic Gay Rom Com and Nothing Can Convince Me Otherwise, Humor, I'll Stop the World and Simp for You, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Lighthearted Chaos, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_cup_of_tea/pseuds/one_more_cup_of_tea
Summary: Gabriel's attempt to de-stress results in (short-lived) distress for Aziraphale and Crowley while they are on adatewalk.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Close Encounters of the Angelic Kind

Crowley was about to be unfaithful, and he did not like it one bit.

He knew he'd have to apologize later that evening. He'd have to look the Bentley square in the headlights and admit to it that he had done the unthinkable: he had taken a taxi.

The Bentley, oblivious to Crowley's impending betrayal, was currently parked a few miles away, in its usual spot outside Aziraphale's bookshop, where it could reliably be found every Saturday. (Often it did not leave its spot until Monday morning.) On that particular weekend, the angel and the demon had left the shop to go for a walk around London, an activity in which Crowley would have refused to participate if their favorite pub had not been on the proposed route. When they were still some distance away from the pub, however, the weather had suddenly turned cold and wet. Despite their umbrellas–Crowley's black and Aziraphale's tartan–the rain made things unpleasantly damp, and they were too far from the bookstore to go back for the Bentley. There were also no bus stops or Tube stations close by.

In short, a taxi was their most convenient option.

Aziraphale endeavored to hail a cab from the sidewalk while Crowley sulked in the entrance to a nearby alleyway, trying to claim as little responsibility as possible for the taxi escapade. His mood lifted somewhat as he watched Aziraphale try to summon a taxi with elegant hand motions and polite exclamations of "Excuse me!" Eventually, a vehicle drew up to the roadside, and Aziraphale conferred briefly with the driver before coming to fetch Crowley.

The angel's bowtie was askew, his cuffs were soaked with rain, and his eyes were wide with something like alarm. Before Crowley could speak, Aziraphale hissed, "There's a problem."

"What? That's the car, isn't it?" Crowley gestured toward the waiting taxi. The rain-streaked windshield obscured the figure sitting at the steering wheel.

"Yes, but . . . it's the driver."

"What about them?" Crowley peered again at the vehicle, and, as if on cue, the windshield wipers swept across the window, clearing away a swath of rain droplets and revealing a disturbingly familiar cherubic face.

"It can't be," groaned Crowley in disbelief. " _The archangel fucking Gabriel?_ His words, not mine," he clarified, seeing how Aziraphale, even in his anxious state, managed to look scandalized at the vulgarity.

"He said he was on a special assignment and would be glad to give me a lift. I told him I had to go get my friend," Aziraphale whispered, as if Gabriel were within earshot.

"Couldn't you just have said that you made a mistake and didn't need a taxi?"

"I can't _lie_. He'll think I'm up to something."

"Right, and he certainly won't think you're up to something when I get in the car with you." Crowley stole another glance at the taxi. To his relief, he and Aziraphale were most likely outside the archangel's range of vision, due to the rain, the crush of people on the sidewalk, and the shadows overhanging the alley.

"That's why you have to help!" Aziraphale's eyes brightened as he thought of a solution. "Disguise yourself!"

" _Disguise?_ " Crowley grimaced as if Aziraphale had told him to jump into the pond at St. James's Park and pretend to be one of the ducks.

"It's the only thing I can think of!" Crowley's look of distaste intensified, but Aziraphale persisted: "Do you have a better idea? Because if you do, then by all means—"

"Oh, shut up." As usually happened when the angel asked if he had a better plan, any practical ideas immediately sprouted wings and took flight from Crowley's brain. Grumbling under his breath and missing the Bentley more with each passing second, the demon scanned the people hurrying past them on the sidewalk, chose a person at random, and snapped his fingers.

The passerby Crowley had selected, an American tourist, was far too immersed in sight-seeing to notice that a vaguely serpentine individual under a black umbrella had suddenly donned an exact replica of his outfit, down to the beer stain on his khaki cargo shorts. Along with this uncharacteristic legwear, Crowley now wore gray sneakers, white crew socks, and a red T-shirt that read "Keep Calm and Mind the Gap." A baseball cap garishly emblazoned with the Union Jack sat atop his head, crushing his coiffure. Thankfully, his sunglasses remained, allowing him to preserve some modicum of dignity.

Over the past few millennia, Crowley had grown familiar with the ins and outs of eternal damnation. Nonetheless, in these clothes, he felt as if he had hitherto been stuck in the waiting room of hell and was only now getting to the main event.

"Good lord," Aziraphale murmured, taken aback by this sudden transformation.

"You asked for it," Crowley shot back accusatorily and began making his way toward the taxi.

As they climbed into the back seat of the car, Gabriel greeted them with a wide smile, looking like a toothpaste advertisement geared toward soulless bureaucrats. "There you are, Aziraphale! Who's your little friend?"

"This is . . . er . . . Cr-Christian," stammered Aziraphale. He ignored the very unchristian look Crowley gave him. "He's a new employee at the bookshop and I was showing him around London."

"Well, isn't that nice!" said Gabriel, with the same false sincerity people use when assuring the dentist that they do, in fact, floss every day.

"Yes, now, if you don't mind, we want to go to—" Aziraphale was about to give the name of the pub, but Gabriel unceremoniously turned in his seat and pointed a gun at Crowley.

"Don't move, demon," he ordered amiably and then frowned at the weapon in his hand. "Oh, my bad, that's not right." The gun turned into a small green water pistol shaped like the head of a crocodile. "That's better." His fingered hovered near the plastic trigger.

Crowley held up his hands and looked warily at the weapon, certain that holy water lurked inside. "I don't think the disguise worked, angel."

"Oh dear, I thought it was quite convincing," lamented Aziraphale. He tried to assume a businesslike tone. "Gabriel, I'm not sure what you're trying to do, but it's not very nice."

Gabriel shook his head with mock pity. "Aziraphale, you really need to get with the times. Nobody bothers being nice anymore. It's all about," he paused for effect, "self-care."

"Self-what?" asked Aziraphale, mystified. Crowley, meanwhile, was still transfixed by the water pistol.

"Self- _care_ , Aziraphale. Relieving yourself of the day's anxieties by doing things that made you feel happy and relaxed. You and your satanic beau have caused me a great deal of stress—really, I even started developing acne—so I'm going to practice some self-care and eliminate you both from the realm of existence. I'm sure you understand."

"I . . . I'm afraid that doesn't sound very relaxing for me and Crowley," protested Aziraphale.

"But that's why it's called _self_ -care. The 'self,' in this case, is me." Gabriel beamed at his captives.

"You're an angel. Can't you just go play power ballads on your harp and get your feelings out that way?" grumbled Crowley.

Gabriel bristled at this suggestion. "If you don't shut your skinny demon ass up, I am going to lose my cool," he said through gritted teeth. "Work with me here, people. I am trying to cultivate positive energy."

"I, for one, would feel much more positive if you stopped waving that thing at Crowley," remarked Aziraphale, indicating Gabriel's weapon.

"So sorry. Is this better?" Gabriel turned the water pistol from Crowley to Aziraphale, and it morphed into a blowtorch. Aziraphale recoiled in fear from the blue flame, while Crowley took advantage of Gabriel's averted attention and resumed his usual black attire with a wave of his hand.

"What the hell are you doing, Crowley? I am in _danger_ here," Aziraphale cried.

"I can think better when I like how I look," remonstrated Crowley, trying to arrange his hair into some semblance of order. When this task proved hopeless, he attempted to reason with the antagonistic archangel: "Look here, Gabriel. Not to play devil's advocate, but how do you know that killing us is going to make you feel good?"

"Don't try to fool me with your lies, Mephistopheles!" snapped Gabriel.

"Do you even have a plan? Are you just going to sit here threatening us until the glaciers melt and we're all turned into fish food?"

"I do have a plan and it's very simple," answered Gabriel with an icy smile. "The plan is to kill you."

"Yes, but _when_ and _how_?"

"I fail to see how the details are relevant," remarked Aziraphale nervously. "Really, Gabriel, _murder_? At your age? We all thought you had grown out of that phase after the Great Flood."

"Well, I assumed you would grow out your homoerotic-friendship-with-a-demon phase, but I see I misjudged you."

"Oh, that's not just a phase," interjected Crowley. Aziraphale gave him such a scathing look that Crowley wondered if one small taxi would be able to contain two homicidal angels.

"I don't want to hear another word from you, hellion" said Gabriel, changing the blowtorch back into the water pistol and brandishing it at Crowley. "You know what I've got in here?"

"I'm assuming it's not champagne," the demon replied dryly.

Before Gabriel could answer, Aziraphale gave a start and exclaimed, "Excellent idea, Crowley!" He gestured toward the water pistol, and bubbly foam began seeping from the plastic muzzle of the crocodile. The smell of champagne filled the taxi.

"What the fuck?" bellowed Gabriel, looking askance at his now harmless weapon.

"No need to be so shocked," said Aziraphale sweetly. "After all, our side has an old tradition of turning water into spirits."

Abandoning the effort not to lose his cool, Gabriel lunged further toward the back seat and tried to turn the water pistol back into a blowtorch. Before the flame had a chance to singe Aziraphale, however, the torch suddenly transformed into a skewer studded with toasted marshmallows.

"Oh, thank you, Crowley," said Aziraphale, plucking the skewer from Gabriel's hand and beginning to eat the marshmallows. "You know, Gabriel," he added between bites, "I didn't want to bring this up, but there's a very good reason why you shouldn't kill us. Besides, of course, the whole 'murder is wrong' angle."

"And what might that be?" growled Gabriel. "Make it short, please; suspense is not healthy for my stress levels."

Aziraphale finished his marshmallows, whisked a handkerchief from his coat sleeve, and patted his lips before continuing. "I've recently heard some interesting tidbits about you and another . . . individual." He cast a significant look at the archangel. "I wrote it all in a letter which I've hidden in my bookshop, where I've made it impossible for you to find, so don't even bother trying. Anyhow, if I die, the letter will automatically travel to the post box of the Almighty, and she'll be able to read everything I've written."

Gabriel became visibly uneasy. "What individual are you referring to?"

"I'm sure you realize whom I mean. You know, _buzz buzz_?" Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and locked eyes with his adversary.

Crowley stared at his companion as if the angel had become completely unhinged. Gabriel, though, seemed to understand perfectly. Withdrawing into the front seat of the taxi, he held up his hands in resignation. "I see you have me over a barrister."

"Barrel. The idiom is 'over a barrel,'" corrected Crowley, but he quickly regretted intervening. Gabriel fixed him with a gleeful look, like a business executive pinpointing exactly which unethical practices will enable him to quadruple his salary.

" _You_ haven't written any letter, you Luciferian leech. I can still kill you. Isn't that right, Aziraphale?"

"I . . . I suppose so," faltered Aziraphale, having failed to see this flaw in his attempt at coercion.

"What!? Angel, a little help, please!" Crowley appealed, not taking his eyes off Gabriel, who was starting to make Satan seem positively benign by comparison.

"Right, sorry!" Aziraphale came to his senses. "Gabriel, if you hurt Crowley, I will write a copy of my letter and send it upstairs posthaste. And I'll use my very best stationery. It's straight from the desk of Elizabeth I, and I use it only for the most serious occasions."

"Is that what you use for my letters?" asked Crowley in an undertone.

"Yes, it is," said Aziraphale, flushing slightly.

"Ah yes, that's some good paper." He turned to Gabriel. "You hear that? We mean business, so you'd better give up the game."

Gabriel, however, was no longer paying attention. He was clutching the top of the steering wheel with both hands and resting his forehead on the backs of his hands. "I've had such a bad year!" he choked. "First Armageddon went wrong, and then I couldn't execute you properly, even though every angel knows I'm the most experienced executioner in heaven. And then there was all the paperwork—so much paperwork!—and then they moved me to a new office next to Michael, who just never shuts up, and then at the annual holiday party Raphael forgot my secret Santa gift, only I think he did it on purpose, and . . . just . . . nobody seems to like me anymore!" His voice rose to a shrill pitch. "All I wanted was an afternoon to relax and unwind and destroy some of the people who stress me out! Is that too much to ask for?" He thumped his forehead against the steering wheel in frustration, sounding the horn by accident.

The occupants of the back seat were at a loss as to how to respond to this outburst, until Crowley muttered, "That's it; I'm getting out of here." He and Aziraphale gathered their umbrellas and prepared to exit the cab, without a word of protest from the distraught Gabriel, who remained hunched over the steering wheel. As he was able to close the door, Aziraphale said hesitantly, "There there, Gabriel. Why don't you go home and have a nice cup of cocoa?"

"Right, and might I also respectfully suggest fucking off?" added Crowley. They shut the cab doors and left the archangel to wallow in his misery.

"Gabriel really is quite rude, don't you think?" Aziraphale commented once they again stood on the sidewalk under their respective umbrellas. It was still raining, though not as heavily as before.

"Very true, no _savoir faire_ at all," agreed Crowley.

"Shall we walk to the pub? The rain isn't so bad, and I do _not_ want to try another taxi." Aziraphale started walking, but Crowley called to him.

"Wait a minute, angel."

Aziraphale turned back. "What is it?"

In answer, Crowley grasped Aziraphale's arm and steered him to the alley where they had talked before. Aziraphale looked somewhat nervous as Crowley asked, "Please enlighten me and explain the meaning of—how did you put it? — _buzz buzz_.'"

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley, you know I don't encourage gossip." He made as if to walk away, but Crowley barred his path with the handle of his black umbrella, now closed.

"Aziraphale, if you had to share gossip to get a plate of Parisian crepes, you would order the entire menu before the waiter could finish saying _bonjour_."

"Crepes are an entirely different matter," objected the angel. "Now, let's go. I'm getting hungry."

Crowley continued to hold his umbrella as a barrier on Aziraphale's right side and reached around to brace his free hand against the wall on the angel's left, effectively trapping him in place. Their bodies were close enough that Aziraphale's tartan umbrella shielded both of their heads from the rain. Being a demon, Crowley did not leave room for the Holy Spirit, on principle.

"First you have to tell me how you blackmailed the arch-asshole Gabriel," he demanded.

"It wasn't _blackmail—_ "

"Then what was it?"

Aziraphale glanced toward the crowds passing on the sidewalk. "People are going to wonder what we're doing, huddled like this in an alley."

"It's none of their business. They'll just think we're snogging. Now get to the point."

Aziraphale gave him an exasperated stare. "Really, Crowley, I'm surprised you haven't figured it out already. I was talking about your nasty old boss Beelzebub. A little while ago, I heard through the heavenly grapevine that Gabriel has been _fraternizing_ with Beelzebub, if you know what I mean."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I get the drift, being an experienced fraternizer myself and all."

"Well, I thought, Beelzebub . . . flies . . . buzzing. I was trying to be _subtle_."

"Subtlety, angel, is not your strong suit. And everyone knows about Beelzebub and Gabriel. In terms of hot gossip, that information is about as warm as Hastur's heart."

"Well, at least Gabriel didn't seem to know that everyone else knows."

"Lucky for us." Crowley had already been fairly certain that Beelzebub was the "individual" in question, but he didn't often have the opportunity to pin Aziraphale against a wall. At least, not in public. "Did you really write all that in a letter for, you know, higher authorities?"

"No. . . . But I could easily do it," Aziraphale defended himself.

Crowley smirked. "Blackmail _and_ lying? Any more wrongdoing and you'll find yourself gavotting all the way down to hell."

"Considering all the time I spend with you, I'm pretty much already there." Aziraphale threw him a sidelong glance as he straightened his waistcoat. "Shall we resume our walk?"

"If you insist," said Crowley, finally moving aside his umbrella so Aziraphale could proceed onto the sidewalk. Nonetheless, the angel balked at leaving the alleyway. Instead of returning to the sidewalk, he took a step back until he was pressed against Crowley's arm, which was still outstretched next to him. "Maybe we'd better wait here until the rain stops."

Crowley made no objection.

Some passersby may indeed have wondered what exactly those two people in the alley were doing behind their umbrellas. But, as Crowley had said, it was none of their business.


End file.
